The next day I told her I would not go away. She said nothing save
she hardly thought I had entirely lost my senses, but the thing I am
gladdest to remember since her death is the look that came into her
eyes when I told her. For two years longer I lived with her, years
for her of practical invalidism, and for me of opportunity to do for
her what she had never permitted me to do before. Two weeks after
Kitty's marriage she died suddenly, and at times I still shiver with
the cold clamminess that came over me as I stood by her in her last
sleep and realized my aloneness in the world. My parents had died in
my early childhood. I had no brothers or sisters, no near relatives,
save an uncle who lived abroad and some cousins here in town. Mr.
Chesmond was very kind, but I could not continue to accept what he
had willingly given his wife's adopted child, and Kitty no longer
needed me. It is a fearful feeling, this sense of belonging to no
one, of having no one belonging to you. Lest it overwhelm me, I went
at once to work upon the house in Scarborough Square left me by Aunt
Matilda, together with an annuity of a thousand dollars. Already it
means much to me. For a while, at least, it is a haven, a shelter, a
home. What it may prove--

I have been thinking much to-day of Aunt Matilda. Perhaps it is
because Selwyn was here last night. She was afraid I would marry him.




CHAPTER IV

I did not tell Selwyn I was coming to Scarborough Square to live. I